In For the Kill (McClouds & Friends #11)(130)

The picture was out of focus, taken from behind a sliding glass door. Miles and Lara’s housewarming party, where she’d never let him talk to her. She’d run away whenever he tried. The picture was Sam talking to Sean, holding a beer. The next one was the same photo, but enlarged, cropped. Everything trimmed out except his face.

He clicked the next one, which was of Kev and Edie’s baby Jon’s first birthday party, a clan-wide bash. Kev held little Jon up proudly, fat legs waving. Sam laughed at both of them. Next shot, just his own enlarged face, laughing, and a blurred flash of Jon’s bare, dimpled foot.

The next one was from Lily and Bruno’s wedding, years ago. There were several from that party. Him talking. Him smiling. Him drinking. Him staring moodily into the ballroom at the dancers. All pairs, first the original, then the enlarged, cropped version. On, and on, and on.

He scrolled down. Counted. One hundred and sixty-eight originals, one hundred and sixty-eight edited versions. Three hundred and thirty-six photos. Bigger than his own stalker stash of Sveti photos.

She had him beat. By a country mile.

It should be a balm for his ego, but his ego was past soothing. It was six feet under. All that was left was raw meat, exposed nerves. Pain.

Three hundred and thirty-six f*cking jolts of it.

He had to close his eyes and just try to breathe. He was tempted to call the nurse and make a noisy, agitated fuss, until she put him down with some powerful opiate or other. Bring on the cosh.

But that made him think of Sasha. He’d given his life for Sam’s. Sasha had done the hard thing, the brave thing. Out of respect, he’d do the same. No more morphine derivatives were going into his veins today.

He clicked on the folder “Mama.” Childhood photos of Sveti and her parents. Sveti got the cheekbones and the dark coloring from her father. Sergei Ardova had been a severe-looking man. A sharp, measuring look in his eyes. He’d have been an ass-kicking, terror-inducing father-in-law, in some happy parallel universe.

Baby pics of Sveti were hard to look at, and equally impossible to look away from. It hurt, to imagine her that small, that defenseless. Pictures of her as a beautiful six-or eight-or ten-year-old had the same effect. He shrank from looking at that hopeful, delicate face, those big, innocent eyes, knowing what was in store for her.

Oh, f*ck this. He was indulging in pure, distilled masochism, but he just couldn’t stop himself. His crush on Sveti was his first experience of helplessly compulsive behavior. He was strung out on her scent, her touch, her glance. The caress of her breath against his chest, her slender limbs twined around his body. Warm and relaxed and trusting.

He covered his eyes for a while. Then clicked onward into the “Mama” file, just for something to do. Anything at all.

There it was, the fateful photo of her mom that had started all this. Her eyes were so compelling. They gazed out of the photo at him with haunting urgency. Begging him to do something, now, please, fast.

He was working himself into a state. Stress hormones messing with his head. He clicked off Sonia’s silent plea. Opened another.

This one wasn’t much better. It was that shot of Sergei, complete with Zhoglo’s smirk behind his shoulder. About which he’d made those arrogant, butthead pronouncements about choosing your thoughts, choosing who got into the frame. Trimming out the undesirable.

Like he knew what the f*ck he was talking about. Like he had even the most basic, elemental clue how to choose his own thoughts.

He recognized Sveti’s heart-stopping smile in her father’s grin. He was raising his glass, toasting that scum Zhoglo, and the other guy, the mystery dude, who— What the f*ck?

He stared at the phone, looked closer. He rubbed his eyes. Blinked furiously. No way. Oh, no f*cking way. Not possible.

He used the camera’s zoom function, clicked in closer.

The third man was Hazlett. Much younger, hair darker, but it was him, no question, complete with the dimples, the whitened teeth, the charming smile. He was not aware that he was being photographed. The picture had been taken from an interior, focusing out the window to where the three men stood on an outdoor veranda.

He had no idea what the hell this meant, but Sveti was in danger, more than he’d ever dreamed. And he’d ordered her to walk away from him and straight out into it, just because she wouldn’t be a good little girl and toe his line. He couldn’t even call and warn her. She was naked, incommunicado, in the mouth of the beast. Holy flipping shit.

He searched through Sveti’s phone until he found a number for the Villa Rosalba, the one Renato had given her the day of the gala. Renato Torregrossa was probably dirty, too, but whatever. He had to try.

He dialed the number, waited while it rang. “Pronto?” a man said.

“Have I reached the Villa Rosalba?” he asked in Italian.

“Si. E lei chi è?” Yes, and you are?

“I’m Sam Petrie. I’m looking for Svetlana Ardova. Is she there?”

“Mi dispiace, but the Signorina Ardova left late last night and has not been back.”

His heart thumped, hard. “Did she leave alone?”

“I do not know, signore.”

“Do you know where she—”

“No, I do not. No one knows. Buona sera, signore—”

“No! Wait! How about Hazlett? Is he there? Or Torregrossa?”

“Neither of them are here.” The voice was frigid with distrust. “Buona sera, signore.” The connection broke.